Norma Peterson and the Quiet Revolution of Documenting Abuse

Norma Peterson’s story begins far from the spotlight. She grew up in Aurora, Illinois, the second-largest city in the state, a swirl of cultures and neighborhoods folded into one another. It was a place where families put down roots, where her parents — from Texas — found stable jobs and built a quiet, ordinary suburban life. Their sacrifices shaped Norma’s sense of loyalty, responsibility, and gratitude. She describes herself as a “daddy’s girl,” raised in Catholic schools, anchored by the rhythms of a close-knit family that taught her to stand up for people she loves.

Nothing about that early life foreshadowed the role she would one day play.

The Morning Everything Shifted

On October 28, 2007, Stacy Ann Peterson, the 23-year-old wife of Bolingbrook police sergeant Drew Peterson, was reported missing. The case exploded onto national news. Peterson’s previous wife, Kathleen Savio, had died three years earlier in what was first ruled an accidental bathtub drowning, but later revealed to be a homicide staged to look like an accident. Both women were young mothers. Both had voiced fear and described escalating abuse. Both had tried to leave.

Drew Peterson quickly became the prime suspect and was ultimately convicted — not for Stacy’s disappearance, which remains unsolved — but for the murder of Kathleen Savio. His high-profile trial captivated the country and became a touchstone in discussions of intimate partner violence, manipulation, and systemic blind spots.

For Norma, the story wasn’t a headline. It was family.

Stacy was her sister-in-law. Kathleen had been part of their lives for years. When Stacy vanished, Norma and her husband discovered the truth the same way millions of Americans did — on the morning news, Stacy’s photo appearing on the screen before dawn.

Her husband called her downstairs, shaken, and when he told her what he’d seen, Norma’s first words surfaced without hesitation:
“He killed her.”

That instinct came with an immediate sense of responsibility. Stacy’s children, Lacey and Anthony, were still very young — “only about 18 months apart.” Norma knew they couldn’t be left in their father’s care. And so she and her husband moved into the house for more than a month as cameras camped out on the lawn and reporters filled the street. They fed the kids, soothed them, played with them, held the family together while grief, shock, and chaos swirled around them.

What torments Norma to this day is not what she did, but what she couldn’t do.

“I felt very protective of her,” she says. “The fact that I couldn’t help her then weighs heavy on my heart.”

Stacy had come from a broken background, eager to be the loving mother she never had. To Norma, she was warm, funny, “an incredible mom.” Losing her, and losing Kathleen before her, reshaped Norma’s understanding of domestic violence as something far more complex than bruises and police reports. It was hiddenness: emotional manipulation, financial control, coercion, the erosion of self-worth so complete that red flags look like normal life.

A Tool Hidden in Plain Sight

Before speaking publicly, Norma searched online spaces under an anonymous username, desperate to understand the patterns unfolding around her. In that search she encountered author and advocate Susan Murphy-Milano, who had spent decades helping victims document abuse in ways the legal system could understand.

Her creation, the Evidentiary Abuse Affidavit (EAA), was a lifeline disguised as paperwork. It allowed a victim to record their story, paired with photos, digital evidence, and documentation, in a sworn, structured format that preserved patterns of abuse long before a crisis turned fatal.

For cases like Stacy’s and Kathleen’s, where evidence was scattered, suppressed, or known only through hearsay, the EAA could have changed everything.

Norma understood its moral gravity instantly. It wasn’t just a legal tool — it was a voice for victims who might never get to speak for themselves.

Five years to the day after Stacy disappeared, Susan died of cancer. “Tell me these two women are not tied together,” Norma says. Their legacies — their unfinished work — began flowing toward Norma in ways she couldn’t ignore.

Still, she couldn’t act publicly yet. As long as Drew Peterson could appeal his conviction, she feared retaliation. Only when he received an additional, longer sentence — this time for attempting to solicit the murder of the district attorney — did Norma finally step into the public arena.

Document the Abuse: Purpose Built From Pain

With the steady support of advocate Delilah Jones, Norma became the steward of Susan’s work. After years of personal obstacles — including her husband’s battle with stage 4 colon cancer — Norma finally secured nonprofit status for Document the Abuse in 2024.

“This wasn’t optional for me. It was something I had to do.”

Today, thousands of EAA files have been created worldwide. Survivors from Canada, the UK, and the Caribbean use the platform. It allows victims to upload evidence, photos of damage, screenshots of threats, records of violations, without saving anything to their phone.

One Georgia officer contacted her after a domestic violence homicide, attempting to confirm an EAA existed. Norma followed strict protocol — credentials, documentation — but the conversation left its mark.

“He told me having an EAA could eliminate a lot of the work, time, energy, and money,” she says. In other words, it could save lives.

She’s seen this already. A young woman who heard her speak at a Take Back the Night event created an affidavit. Two years later, when she finally escaped, everything she needed was there. She thanked Norma for giving her the first step.

“These are the stories that feed my heart,” Norma says. “This is how we give legacy to Kathy and Stacy. Their stories matter. We’re changing outcomes.”

Changing Systems From the Inside Out

Norma now spends her days training law enforcement, attorneys, advocates, and students. She teaches warning signs — the green, yellow, and red flags borrowed from LoveIsRespect.org — and pushes for prevention as much as response. She reminds people that documentation isn’t passive; it’s protective. It changes timelines. It saves lives.

She’s honest about pushback, but she’s equally clear: she’s not there to confront, she’s there to offer solutions.

“If all you do is complain, that’s not getting us anywhere. I bring a tool that makes everyone’s work easier.”

At a recent Chicago Bar Association panel, she looked out at a room full of lawyers and was struck by how many men had shown up. She finds hope in that shift.

“If women could have solved this alone, they would have. Men have a responsibility too.”

The Sentence She’d Put on Every Billboard

Her message is simple, unadorned, and unwavering:

“Have hope.”

Hope is what turned private grief into public purpose. Hope is what sustains her through trainings, documentaries, late-night calls, and the thousands of stories entrusted to her care. Hope is what she finds in her grandchildren’s laughter, in her daily breathing practices, in each new affidavit uploaded by someone choosing safety.

“We’re at the very cusp of getting to where we need to be,” she says. “This work is so much bigger than me. And we just keep going.”